


this heart needs (something)

by bankrobbery



Category: Deadpool (2016), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bankrobbery/pseuds/bankrobbery
Summary: ‘Okay, come on, you have to think about this rationally,’Peter thinks to himself and it’s not that he can’t reason his reaction out, it’s not that he can’t listen to his own advice, it’s that he doesn’twantto.Peter gets hit by sex pollen. Deadpool helps out. That should be the end of it.





	this heart needs (something)

It’s an accident - a mistake - but it’s a choice he makes all the same. It’s the kind of decision that Peter feels in the palms of his hands like a burn, as though he’s wrapped his hands around scorching metal like he’s temporarily forgotten how dangerous it is. It’s the kind of mistake Peter makes like he doesn’t think it will cause him misery in the days to follow. It’s a lapse in judgment and it isn’t as though Peter hasn’t had enough of those to fill his own self-help guide, but he still blunders into it like his second sense isn’t plucking away at his brain in a way that should remind him that _this is something bad_.

This isn’t the first time he’s met Deadpool. This isn’t even the fifteenth time he’s met Deadpool. He’s met Deadpool a hundred times if he’s met him once - meets him constantly, like New York isn’t home to eight and a half million other people he could run into. Deadpool shows up in the middle of the Avengers tower unannounced for movie night, like it’s somewhere he’s invited to be, and acts surprised when they’re divided on how to deal with him. He shows up when Peter is attempting to wrangle a giant slime creature back into the sewer and away from a crowded shopping mall it has decided it wants to try to eat. He shows up all of the god damned time and, after the sixth or seventh time, it becomes more of an annoyance - like a gnat that you keep swatting at but who really thinks you guys should chill together sometime - and less of a fully enraging, mind numbing experience.

Deadpool is an earthquake - is a force of nature who shows up with little to no warning in varying degrees of intensity, with absolutely no regard for who or what is in his way, and with all the subtlety typically associated with natural disasters. The first couple of times it happens Peter tries to stop him, then he tries to ignore him, and then, when nothing else has worked, he finally tries to understand him. Which is an insurmountable obstacle all on its own, because Deadpool is barricaded behind carefully cultivated sarcasm and inappropriate jokes, and Peter is starting to think that maybe what he’s seeing is not exactly all that’s there. He’s starting to wonder how much of Deadpool’s persona is just for show.

Everything happens because Peter can’t turn his back when there are people who need help. There’s some maniac with a bomb setting charges throughout the questionably moral headquarters of a group doing questionably ethical experiments and, despite their unfortunate life choices in terms of employment, they definitely don’t deserve to get blown the fuck up. Peter doesn’t realize how short on time he is, doesn’t realize how long it takes him to clear the building and do one more headcount, and by the time he realizes he’s out of time it’s already way too late.

When the trembling of the walls settles to something less ominous, and the adrenaline paves the way for the uneasiness that crawls its way through the wreckage to find him, Peter is still alive.  The ringing in his ears begins to clear, accompanied by the buzzing and flickering of electricity struggling to find stability above him. There is a rumbling through the linoleum floor that feels like thunder, but the dust doesn’t settle. It lays thick in the air like fog, mineral fibers and tiny particles of plaster floating through the haze of emergency lights like snow - thick like the confusion and disorientation in his own head.

There is glass cracking underneath his shoulder blades as he breathes. The linoleum is wet and slick and red. There are two large arms bracketed beside his head that Wade is using to hold himself above him, even if his mask is so close to Peter’s face he thinks he can see the way the fibers weave together in his suit. The heat of his body is warm amidst air that is already stifling, but there’s a chill in the set of Peter’s spine that doesn’t belong there that he can’t seem to shake. Part of him feels trapped, cornered and defensive, and another part of him feels something stick in his throat that feels unmistakably like nerves. He tries and fails to remember a time he’s willingly let Deadpool get this close before.

“That’s not a gun in my pocket, but I am happy to see you,” Wade says, in casual reference to the piece of rebar that has impaled so far through his upper thigh, through bone and muscle and tendons, that Peter can feel it bruising into his own hip. “Don’t get me wrong, your self-sacrificing nature is charming in its own way - kind of like a puppy who chews your shoes up and then shits in them - but maybe we don’t need to run into every burning building to save every worthless motherfucker still breathing. Speaking of breathing - you might want to reconsider your intimate relationship with oxygen until all this chemical shit in the air settles.”

Peter does try to think of a comeback, tries to think of anything to say to put them back on equal footing, but the words won’t come. He’s stricken by the memory of the floor giving out beneath him as the tremor of the explosion rolled through the building. He’s struck dumb by the memory of Wade solid and strong above him - around him, careful, like maybe he could do something to stop the debris and fire barreling across the floor they’d been standing on like a freight train. Wade is the only stable thing he can remember after the bomb went off, after they had plummeted through linoleum, and concrete, and steel, and fiberboard to wind up in whatever’s left of the laboratory’s basement hallways.

“You don’t have to keep following me around, idiot,” Peter finally replies, voice hoarse from the dust in his throat, but there’s no energy and no heat behind his words. He can’t think of a better comeback - can’t think of anything at all. It feels almost like he’s having a panic attack, by the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribcage, by the way his breath feels heavy in his chest. He thinks maybe it’s Deadpool’s proximity, that maybe his senses are going a little haywire with someone he’s always known to be inherently dangerous so close, but nothing becomes any clearer when Deadpool rolls over onto his back on the linoleum and removes himself from Peter’s bubble of personal space. Peter presses his fingers to his masked face, but the pressure feels dull and strange; his movements feel stiff and mechanical, like he’s a marionette someone else is pulling into place with unpracticed motions.

Peter sits up slowly and tries to even his breathing, tries to clear his head. He inhales deeply, hoping it’ll do something to dispel the heaviness sitting in his chest, but when he exhales it sends a full body shiver through him. The air tastes almost like codeine, bitter and metallic and unpleasant, and it coats his throat in a film he tries and fails to swallow.  

_‘He’s right - you probably shouldn’t be breathing this crap in_ ,’ he thinks to himself, catching the flecks of red in the air through the haze of the emergency lights. Beside him he can hear Deadpool pulling ten inches of bent rebar through his own thigh, can hear it clank against the floor and roll away, and he’s giving a running narration that sounds so far away Peter’s only vaguely aware he’s speaking at all. Deadpool feels as though he’s a hundred miles away, through walls and water and atmosphere, and Peter is suddenly so hot - skin boiling, sweat gathering at his brow - that he can barely breathe. He takes another deep, gasping breath that does nothing to alleviate the panic that is slowly beginning to take root in the base of his spine.

Peter struggles to his feet with the intention of finding a way back to the surface before the building gives out entirely and finally crushes them. He hadn’t planned on Deadpool showing up, or on him saving his life, or on getting trapped underneath the remains of the laboratory with him. He hadn’t planned on the tight constriction in his chest that he can’t seem to shake. His feet feel unsteady beneath him, like he’s standing on a ship in the middle of the sea in the eye of a storm, and he reaches out almost blindly to find the wall he knows must be there and meets nothing but air instead. He staggers, balancing himself on his own two, useless legs and manages to keep himself from tumbling headfirst back onto the floor. There’s movement beside him, the sound of glass crunching underfoot, but Peter doesn’t take note of it until it’s too late.

Deadpool grabs his shoulder and shakes him, firm but without violence. When he receives no immediate response, he pulls his mask up over his scarred head and says, “Earth to Spider-man. Come in, Spider-man. Blink twice if you’re possessed by the void. Or an otherworldly warlord bent on destruction of our planet. Or Batman.”

It’s only a touch. It’s just the clutch of a hand in the curve of his sore shoulder, but whatever is in the air - whatever it is that he keeps breathing in like a god damned idiot - makes it so much more than that. The arousal that spikes up suddenly into his stomach is so unexpected that it momentarily steals what little breath he has. He flushes brightly in the flashing of the emergency lights, half from embarrassment from such an unwarranted reaction from… honestly, from such a minute touch, like he’s a virgin or something, and half from how immediately turned on he is. The fact that it’s Deadpool causing the reaction isn’t immediately as alarming as it probably should be, which is maybe something to consider and maybe something to continue ignoring for the rest of his life, but the intensity of it is what prickles worry into the set of his shoulders like a warning sign he shouldn’t ignore.

_‘Okay, come on, you have to think about this rationally_ ,’ Peter thinks to himself and it’s not that he can’t reason his reaction out, it’s not that he can’t listen to his own advice, it’s that he doesn’t _want_ to. The sudden overwhelming urge to lean into the hand pressing against his suit feels like it swallows him whole in an instant.

He inhales shakily, in an attempt to steady the crippling impulse that shoots through him almost painfully, but all it earns him is another lungful of bitterness and bad decisions. The air is thick and heavy like molasses that he can’t force into his lungs, that sits like a lead weight in his chest, and he can’t breathe. There’s blood on his gloves that doesn’t belong to him and it smears all along the side of his neck when he pulls his mask up and over his head. The rush of air to his face is blissful, like a breath of fresh air, and he gasps into the quiet of the hallway in relief. Without his mask the air tastes worse than he remembers - tastes like burnt bergamot, bitter and acidic and strange. There’s a heat pooling in his stomach that is familiar, that radiates into the tips of his fingers and the set of his jaw in a way that makes swallowing his pride and his inhibitions surprisingly simple.

He tosses the spandex to the side and turns to get both of his hands wrapped in the collar of Deadpool’s suit. Wade’s mouth is still partially open in shock when he leans up on the tips of his toes and kisses him like it’s something they’ve done a hundred times before.

There should be better judgment somewhere inside of him that admonishes him for flinging himself so effortlessly into this deep end, but it’s suspiciously quiet. He waits to feel the panic of realizing he’s taken his mask off around someone who definitely doesn’t need to know his identity, and the panic of not knowing what is causing the fire underneath his skin that’s boiling along his blood without restraint; he waits to feel the panic of realizing this is Deadpool he’s kissing, waits for it to feel like the mistake that he _knows_ it is. The panic doesn’t set in - not immediately - and the lightness in his limbs and the distance in his control makes him feel inebriated. It’s difficult to remember why this should be a bad idea, why this is something he doesn’t do. Wade’s mouth is rough and cool underneath his own and the feel of his skin against Peter’s knuckles is like a glass of cool water in the desert, like coming up for air at the last minute when you think you can’t make it any further.

The hand that curls around his shoulder is surprisingly gentle for someone who just pulled a metal rod out of their own thigh bone, even when it slowly pushes him away and holds him at arm’s length. Peter ends up with his back against the wall he couldn’t reach before, his own palms pressing back against the still-stable concrete block in an effort to steady himself, and his heart panicking in his chest. The grip on his shoulder doesn’t release him and Peter can feel every press of every finger into every single inch of his skin, slow like they’re underwater.

“I _said_ blink twice,” Wade says and there’s a levity to his voice that doesn’t at all match the way he’s holding Peter at a distance - the way he’s looking at him like he’s a snake that’s curled up beside him without being invited. “Are you having a stroke? Do you smell burnt toast? I smell burnt toast - no, wait, that’s just the building on fire. _It’s not on fire, it’s just a little exploded._ Which is bad. Probably. It’s not that bad for me, of course, but I don’t think buildings regenerate.”

Peter can feel the flush that’s running from the tips of his ears down to his neck, but he’s too warm to pull his mask back on and it’s a little late for that regardless. He’s embarrassed by his own actions, even as something at the edge of his control urges him to put his hands back on Deadpool’s skin. “Are you talking to me or your imaginary friends? I don’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, deep jabs on mental stability from someone who was all up on this Kool-Aid a minute ago,” Wade replies, and maybe the hand gripping Peter’s shoulder isn’t as steady as it had first seemed. “Did you brain yourself on my admittedly impressive physique or are you just finally giving in to your huge, embarrassing mancrush on me? Unless you’ve forgotten this isn’t usually how you thank me for saving your life - although, going forward, it totally could be. Has anyone told you you’re _really_ pretty, Spidey?”

Peter wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. He inhales shakily and tries to collect his thoughts, but it feels like they’re floating around in the air like the chemicals he can’t stop inhaling. The hole in Deadpool’s thigh is already squeezing itself closed and he could probably drag the both of them out of here before Peter does something he really, truly regrets. He should get himself together - should insist they force their way out of here, crumbling foundation be damned, but instead he licks his lips, tastes the acrid fumes in the air, and asks, “I’m getting some  conflicting signals from someone who gropes my ass on the regular in front of all of the Avengers.”

“I’ll give you some conflicting signals,” Wade replies, without any of his typical enthusiasm, and Peter knocks his arm aside and kisses him again without giving either of them any time to think it through.  The hand on his shoulder returns in an instant, followed by the curl of one around the back of his neck that sends goosebumps all down his arms, and Peter can’t help the moan he breathes into Wade’s mouth. He feels the grip on him tighten, almost imperceptibly, and then Wade is pressing back against him - demanding, urgent, and Peter opens his mouth to the wet slide of tongue pressing against his lips. The concrete at his back is cool even through his suit, unyielding where his back is pressing against it.

_‘You should be fighting this_ ,’ he thinks, uselessly, when Wade’s uninjured thigh slides in between his legs. There is a tingling in his hands that feels like all of his fingers have fallen asleep, a searing heat in the base of his spine that urges him to forget where he is and who he’s with and what he’s doing. There are consequences to what has happened, to what is still happening, and they’re snowballing quickly.

‘ _Stop, you have to stop_ ,’ he thinks, over and over, but he might as well be talking to someone else. He can’t make his body listen. It’s only his hands on the zipper of Wade’s suit that seems to remind either of them that there’s something amiss.

Wade groans, like he’s in actual physical pain, and his grip on Peter’s shoulder tightens as he pushes himself away again. The dig of fingers into Peter’s suit, into his skin, is almost too hard, almost too rough. Every press of Wade’s fingers are almost on the wrong side of being too much and just on the right side of being something else entirely.  Wade’s hands on him are painful, but they're also good – good in a way he can't really explain or understand, and he wants them everywhere.

“You’re obviously not yourself, Spidey. You strike me as a ‘buy me dinner first’ kind of guy (and I would totally buy you dinner, don’t get me wrong) and I’m attempting to give a fuck about doing the right thing here, for the sake of this epic bromance,” Wade says, through clenched teeth, and the edge to his voice sends another set of chills down Peter’s spine, “but you are making it _really fucking difficult_ to give a shit.”

The building is still crumbling around them, as the foundation settles and the dust lingers, and it’s not like Peter hasn’t made questionable decisions in the past. Anger wouldn’t be a foreign emotion to feel swell through him when Deadpool shows up uninvited, not by a long shot, but he hasn’t felt anger since he saw the hole in the ceiling – since he saw the rebar cast aside that’s turned a dark red – the puncture through Deadpool’s thigh bone, already rapidly healing, that was meant for him. It isn’t like Deadpool hasn’t saved his life before – it’s not about that. Peter has known for longer than he’s comfortable with that there are parts to Deadpool that aren’t as fucked up as he’d like you to believe they are, he’s just never had to confront them before.

The emergency lights flicker – once, twice – and go off entirely. There’s the trickling of water further down the hall, likely from a busted pipe, and the settling of rubble further in the building, and nothing else. With the lights go the last inkling of responsible thought in Peter’s brain that suggests maybe he should reconsider all of the bad ideas that are currently rolling around unchecked in his head. He thinks maybe if he were angry this would be easier to resist, easier to ignore, but he can’t force himself angry. He’s overcome with a sudden feeling of sentiment that mixes violently with the toxins cycling through his lungs and it makes him want to forget the pathways and roads in their relationship that he and Wade have _destroyed_ getting to this point. There is a rush of not-so-foreign affection that makes him want to forget how carefully they’ve been walking this line, how it feels like they’re teetering on the brink of something horrible and frightening - how it feels like he wants to push them off the ledge himself.

“Look, I don’t know what you think goes on at Avengers tower, but we don’t have some sort of ‘ _in case of airborne sex toxins please contact this person_ ’ backup plan,” Peter says, breathless. He can feel the hard outline of Wade’s cock through both their suits, can feel the tightness of his muscles underneath his thighs, and all he wants is to feel his skin underneath his hands. He inhales deeply, feeling lightheaded and continues, “So I’m asking for your help, okay? Before anyone else shows up, before I try to climb Thor or whoever else like a tree, before I do anything else super humiliating.”

Wade licks his lips and shifts, moving pressure off of his still healing leg. “I just want the record to show that you technically just said you’d rather have sex with me over Thor, god of seductive blond locks.”

“See, the more you talk the more I reconsider.”

There is some part of him that hopes Wade makes the right decision. There is a part of him that hopes, for once in his life, Wade puts aside all of his selfish thoughts and self-destructive tendencies and does something that needs to be done. He hopes, feverently, that Wade makes the right choice. He refuses to acknowledge, refuses to consider, that he has no idea what the right choice should be.

Wade mimes zipping his mouth shut through his mask and, well, they’ll see how long that lasts, won’t they? Peter expects to feel a sinking in his chest, to feel disappointed, and isn’t. He expects to feel a lot of things, but maybe it’s the chemicals in the air that turn each and every one of those emotions into something he hadn’t anticipated. There is anxiousness welling up inside of him, but it feels less like trepidation and more like excited nerves. That’s probably something he should be concerned about.

It takes a hundred thousand years to finally peel Wade’s suit off of him and Peter feels like he’s on autopilot. He thinks he could stop if he wanted, if he pulled himself to his feet and forced himself to walk away, but whatever is going on with his body makes it incredibly difficult to _want_ to. He knows what he’s doing in a distant sort of way, like watching himself go through the motions, but the consequences feel far away - feel like something he doesn’t have to consider yet. Part of him thinks that maybe there’s not a timer on how long until he starts freaking out over what he’s doing, but maybe just a point they’ll reach where he’ll suddenly realize this is utter madness and he’ll have sense shocked back into him. Part of him thinks, at some point, he’ll realize what he’s doing and who he’s with and that maybe it’ll be when Wade finally touches him - when he pushes Peter’s suit over his hips and his rough hands slide across the bare skin of Peter’s waist - but it’s not.

Wade has lube in one of his pouches - because of course he does - and Peter has too much adrenaline running through him, is far too horny, to question it. Instead he let’s Wade get two hands underneath his thighs, to lift him up like he’s weightless and press him easily against the wall behind them. It’s dark, almost pitch black, and his breathing is loud in his ears. He desperately hopes his overly concerned teammates haven’t hidden any transmitters or cameras in his suit, because otherwise they’re about to know more about him than he thinks any of them are comfortable with.

There is already a bruise forming on Peter’s thigh, from where Wade is holding him against the concrete that still seems structurally sound, but he knows it will be healed before the hour’s up. He has one hand wrapped around the back of Wade’s neck and the other digging into the skin of his shoulder. The wall is obscenely cold against his bare back, cold and wet from the sprinklers that had gone off and done absolutely nothing, but Wade is scorching heat all along his front, along every inch of skin he touches. Peter feels feverish from the adrenaline still in his veins, from the rush of blood through his body that he can’t control, from the slow slide of Wade’s wet finger as it rings the outside edge of his hole before slowly, slowly sliding into the tight muscle. It’s only the tip of his finger, and then he feels the bone of his knuckle, and then Peter is suddenly hyper aware of all of the nerves in his body he’s never, ever in his life known about.

Peter tries to relax, he really does. He takes a deep breath and tries to imagine the tension in his body sliding away, tries to imagine his muscles relaxing, but he doesn’t know how well it works. The finger inside of him crooks suddenly and Peter’s mind goes blank - his vision whites out - and he can’t even find the breath to gasp. The feeling is so intense and he’s so unprepared for it that, for a long minute, he can’t even rationalize whether it’s good or bad. There’s a part of him that feels so foreign, so distant, that makes him want to say ‘ _do that again_ ’ and that thought alone makes him flush to the roots of his hair. He tries to think of something to say, but then two fingers push back in and whatever he was going to say gets choked into a whimper that escapes without his explicit consent. Wade brushes against that spot again and Peter can’t keep his hips from jerking, his previously forgotten erection aching and rubbing agonizingly against Wade’s abdomen. He doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping Wade’s shoulder until his wrist begins to ache from it. It’s fortunate that Wade is holding all of his weight against the wall, because he’s one hundred and ten percent sure if he lowered him back to his feet that he wouldn’t be able to stand.

Wade withdraws his hand again and Peter thinks _‘Okay, this is it_ ,’ but instead he feels three fingers pressing back into him. This time he can feel the strain of his muscles attempting to accommodate the width of all three knuckles, can feel the sweat beading on his forehead, can feel himself tighten even as he reminds himself over and over again that he needs to relax. He tries to lift his hips to make it easier, but his legs are trembling and there’s only so much that he can focus on at one time when it feels like he’s being pulled inside out. Another crook of the fingers inside him and Peter thinks he is probably leaving marks on the back of Wade’s neck, where the press of his fingers are digging into the scarred flesh there, but, from the quick movements of his wrist, he thinks there’s the distinct possibility that Wade doesn’t mind.

“I don’t wanna seem pushy, but if you don’t relax you’re gonna snap my dick in half,” Wade says, mouth hot against the curve of Peter’s jaw, and when he twists his fingers Peter thinks he might be actively losing his mind. “I mean, maybe you’re into that. I’m not judging - this is a judge free zone, after all. _I’m_ not into that, if we’re comparing notes. We should talk about safe words. If I say _Snickers bar_ -”

“Of course you’re talking again,” Peter pants. “Why did I expect anything else?”

“If you set unrealistic expectations you’re going to be seriously fucking disappointed every time,” Wade says, and withdraws his fingers again. He fumbles around through one of his pouches again and - of course he has condoms, to go with the lube, that he apparently needs to carry around with him at all times. He manages to tear open the packet with one lubed up hand and Peter is bizarrely impressed in spite of the circumstances. “I suggest setting your expectations in life extremely low - bottom of the barrel kind of thing. Then it’s only up from there, Spidey.”

“You want me to start out disappointed-” Peter tries, but his voice chokes off as he feels the blunt tip of Wade’s cock start to push in. The difference between this and his fingers is immediately noticeable. His fingers had been unyielding, tapered at the tip which allowed him some time to adjust, but this is way different. He is suddenly unbelievably grateful Wade is the sort of person to carry lube around in his combat gear.

The stretch is the strangest part - leaves him gasping with how oversensitive it makes him feel, with the warmth he feels tearing its way up through his chest. His hands are beginning to ache from how hard he’s clenching his fingers, but it’s not at all unlike the dig of Wade’s fingers into his own slim hips. He opens his eyes and can’t see much of anything in the dark, even as he feels every inch sink steadily into him. He goes from one breathy exhale to the next, trying to will the tension out of his thighs that feels almost like instinct.

“Relax, baby boy,” Wade breathes into his ear. He’s moving Peter’s hips in small circles on his cock, the blunt edges of his fingernails digging into his skin, as he presses Peter into the wall and continues to slowly stretch him out.

‘ _Fuck you_ ,’ Peter intends to say, but then Wade shifts his hips, adjusting enough to slide the rest of his cock inside him, and whatever he had meant to say gets caught in his throat in a breathless groan. He can feel the strength in Wade’s arms, locked under his legs, the weight of him holding up against the wall, and his ragged breath in his ear. He’s suddenly intensely appreciative there are no lights, no way for Wade to see whatever expression is on his face that is probably too open - far too unguarded. He suddenly, more than anything, wishes he could see Wade’s face.

Wade’s hips continue working in smooth, tight circles that drive his cock in deeper, sliding hard across his prostate in a way that sends white hot lines of pleasure straight to his toes. He expects to feel claustrophobic, expects to hate the feeling of Wade holding him - trapped - between the bulk of his body and the wall, but he’s not. He feels like the breath is being punched out of him with each movement of Wade’s hips, like someone has reached into his ribcage and removed it from him by force, and all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears.

There’s a huff of breath against his ear and Wade is talking again, but Peter can’t bother understanding him with the intense ache pulsing through him, with the pleasure burning through him like a fire. Every motion brushes his dick against Wade’s abs, every thrust almost agonizingly good, and Peter moans so low he feels it in every bone in his body. He can feel the bulge of muscles in Wade’s arm as he hikes him further up the wall, as he makes enough room to change to longer, faster strokes, as he hoists Peter up by his hips and drops him back on his dick like he weighs nothing. Peter hasn’t even touched his own neglected cock yet, but the friction from rubbing against Wade’s stomach, the pressure on his prostate, has him so close he can already see stars.

There will be bruises on his thighs from how tight Wade is holding him, and bruises on his shoulder blades from where they’re digging into the concrete, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He should be mortified at the sounds he’s making, at how he is gasping into Wade’s mouth with each snap of his hips, but he wraps his legs around Wade’s waist and digs his fingers into his skin and he can’t think about anything else. It’s all too much and too little at the same time, like being on the brink of falling apart but too overwhelmed to think of what he needs. He can’t force himself to form words, can hardly do more than cling to Wade’s biceps and attempt to breathe through the swell in his chest that feels like it might swallow him whole.

The lights flicker - once, twice - and come back on, and it pulls Peter so violently from the moment he feels like he’s been punched. His eyes strain against the sudden brightness, even from the dim emergency lights, and his vision is still unfocused when Wade wraps a slick hand around his dick and catches his mouth with his own. Peter can scarcely keep up with his movements, can’t do anything but feel himself come apart on Wade’s cock in the middle of that hallway. He comes so hard he’s shaking from it, spilling all over Wade’s abdomen, body shuddering through the force of it.

The tremor he feels in the tips of his fingers, like a nervousness he can’t be rid of, remains there moments later when Wade stills above him. Peter is loose limbed and boneless, his cock absurdly sensitive and overstimulated, and the groan Wade breathes into his mouth still sends shivers down his spine regardless. Wade’s face is shiny with sweat and he sticks unpleasantly to Peter’s skin when he rests his forehead against his shoulder and breathes in deeply. There is the dim, dull buzz of electricity from further down the hallway, of the backup generators finally kicking on, and there is noise from above them that sounds like movement.

There is still dust settling in the air, red and thick in the lights, and the inside of Peter’s mouth feels sticky.

“I can hear you freaking out,” Wade says, sing song. “I want to point out I said this was a bad idea - well, not a _bad idea_ , definitely not _bad_ \- but definitely not the most romantic of times to lose your anal virginity.”

“That’s not a thing,” Peter murmurs, hissing in a breath when he feels Wade slowly pull out of him. He’s lowered back onto his own two feet and standing is an impossibility he’s not quite ready for yet. He stays leaned up against the wall, his heartbeat evening out and his muscles sore in places he wasn’t sure he even had muscles. “Don’t make this any weirder than it already is.”

The problem is not that he’s freaking out - the problem is that he’s not freaking out. He doesn’t want to admit the calm he still feels - doesn’t want to admit that he’s a little terrified that there’s no immediate rush of humiliation, of nausea, flooding his body when he sees the angry bruises already healing on his hips. The air doesn’t taste like chemicals any longer but it doesn’t mean they’re out of his system; it doesn’t mean he’s not still affected by whatever it was. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t feel the anxiousness in the set of his shoulders, the curl of sickness in the pit of his stomach that typically comes with regret.

There are noises from above them that sound suspiciously like a rescue, like at least a handful of Avengers. Wade finishes pulling his suit back on, finishes pulling his mask down, and  points to the unstable ceiling above them and says, “The welcome wagon has finally arrived.”

Peter isn’t sure what he expects from Wade. It’s difficult to tell his expression even on the best of days, but there’s no denying the tension in the set of his shoulders. There’s something in the strain of his voice that doesn’t belong - something conflicted, something borderline guilty - and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that. There’s probably something he should say, some reassurance to make this less weird, but he’s too busy drowning in his own personal sea of discordance to know how to respond.

Wade retrieves his discarded Spider-man suit for him, mask and all, and Peter feels another stab of gratitude he doesn’t know what to do with. The mass of spandex gets dumped into his arms and when he glances back up Wade is uncomfortably close - close enough that Peter expects him to kiss him and is a little taken aback by the disappointment that rushes through him when he doesn’t. He does lift his hand into the space between them, close enough to Peter’s face that he can smell the blood and grime on his gloves, but his fingers twitch, an aborted motion he thinks better of, and he takes a quick step back.

“My Stark issued restraining order says I’m not supposed to be within five hundred feet of Spider-man, so I’m gonna get while the gettin’s good,” Wade says, like nothing has happened, like anything is any measure of fine. “Smell you later, Spidey.”

There’s a strange ache of something painful that has no place in Peter’s chest, so he shrugs it off and pretends nothing is different. His fingers clench around the suit in his arms and he says, “See you around, Wade.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Whatever is in his system should fade, should dissipate, but it doesn’t. Peter feels a density in the center of his chest that he can’t otherwise explain, that sits like a rock amidst his ribcage and weighs him down like its made of lead.

At first he thinks that maybe it’s fear, creeping through his entire being until it consumes him. He expects a lot of things to happen in the aftermath of the laboratory incident and none of them are good; every scenario that pops into his head leaves him feeling terrified, leaves him anxious and angry. There’s a chill that races down his spine the first time Deadpool shows up afterwards, after he shows up just long enough to thoroughly piss off Iron Man and get in the middle of a situation that was one hundred percent Under Control, and Peter knows the feeling building inside him as the terror that it so obviously is.

Peter takes it upon himself not to tell any of his teammates about what had transpired between the two of them - and he can’t think of a worse way for them to find out than by Deadpool’s big mouth. The more he thinks about it, the worse the sinking feeling in his stomach grows, the harder it is to focus on whatever task is at hand. It’s not uncommon for Deadpool to show up at the most inconvenient of times to help with whatever the Avengers are embroiled in - it’s not like any of that is _new_ \- but now it fills him with a sense of dread he can only play off as irritation for so long.

Wade Wilson says a lot - talks nonstop like it’s his god damned job and he’s being paid by the syllable and rent is due - but he doesn’t have anything to say about this. He doesn’t mention saving Peter’s life, or the way Peter had keened in the dark underneath his hands, and he doesn’t give away anything at all. It’s disconcerting. It’s _worrying_ and it picks at the back of Peter’s subconscious until it’s all he can think about, but nothing comes of it. Peter worries about anyone finding out until it makes him sick, until it’s a constant pit of dread in the bottom of his stomach, but Deadpool says nothing. A day passes, then a week, then two, and Deadpool shows up a half dozen times if he shows up once, but nothing comes of it.

And maybe that’s the part that unsettles him the most, because the worst part should be fucking Deadpool in the bottom of a blown-out building with the Avengers on their way, but it’s not. The worst part is the affection that bubbles up in his throat unwarranted and unwanted, like a sickness he can’t contain, that feels like something that might consume him. He tries to pretend he doesn’t think about the slide of Wade’s hands across his skin, tries to pretend it was something in the air that made him enjoy placing his trust in someone who so carefully took him apart piece by piece, and so far he’s not convinced. The worst part is waking up in the middle of the night, his skin clammy and his heart racing in his chest, and the feeling of desire that has absolutely no place in him at all.

The worst part is waiting. Peter waits with his heart in his throat for Wade to turn this into a joke, into something strung between them that fills him with humiliation and regret, but it doesn’t happen. Two weeks turns into three and the worst part isn’t what happened - it’s what doesn’t happen. Peter waits for Wade to ruin this, like he ruins everything. He waits, anxiety in the set of his spine, for Wade to prove this meant nothing, that it was a mistake he should’ve never made, and he waits, and waits, and waits.

Wade does nothing to make him regret what happened. Peter worries at first that this will change them, that it will destroy him, but it doesn’t do that either. He tries and fails to feel guilty about what happened, to feel regret or remorse. When he thinks of Wade’s mouth against his, when he thinks of his hands on his skin, he tries to feel disgusted - to feel pathetic - and can’t. Deadpool has always confused him, but this isn’t who he thought he was and he doesn’t have any idea what to do with that. Deadpool is a katana wielding lunatic who likes to stab first and ask questions later - or never - and he’s not the kind of person who is known for his discretion. Which is why it’s absurd to think that he wouldn’t lord this over Peter’s head like it’s the juiciest fact he’s ever been in possession of; it’s absurd to think he’s given Deadpool this much power over him, this much leverage, and nothing - absolutely nothing - has come of it.

The world keeps spinning, time keeps moving, even if it feels like it goes on without him. He waits for things to resume their regularly scheduled programming. He waits for things to feel normal again, for the itching underneath his skin to stop. Everything moves around him like it’s unaware of the conflict inside of him; everything around him is exactly where it’s supposed to be and he feels like the thing that’s out of place.

For a brief time, he thinks maybe the drug is still in his system. He thinks that maybe this is something he can’t fight, something out of his control that has entwined itself through his nervous system and made him feel something that couldn’t have possibly have existed otherwise. He thinks maybe it damaged him in some way - that it didn’t leave him how it found him. It feels like there’s something wrong with him, something clinging to him that he can’t shake; he feels, with every breath and every waking moment, that something is unexplainably _wrong_.

It takes longer than it should for him to admit to himself that maybe it’s because he’s not ready to move on. The unrest underneath his skin doesn’t heal - doesn’t get better. It feels like there’s something taking root in his blood, something growing and swelling and festering. Time heals the bruises, and he mends his suit, but the ache in his chest exists in a perpetual state of half-life that won’t leave him alone. Time doesn’t erase the memory, doesn’t ease the constriction in his ribcage when he thinks of what happened, doesn’t help the confusion he feels - constant, like it’s all he knows now. The wounds that don’t heal are the ones that didn’t come from falling through a building, or from Wade’s hands digging crescent moons into his thighs, but rather ones put there by the nothing that happens after it’s all said and done.

‘ _You didn’t want anything to happen_ ,’ he thinks, fervently, but it feels empty all the same.

So maybe the plan should have been to ignore it. Maybe the plan should be to pretend it never happened. Peter spends an exorbitant amount of time trying to busy himself with anything and everything that has nothing to do with Deadpool or bombs or laboratories and doesn’t make it very far. He wants to push this to the back of his brain and pretend it’s not at the forefront, that it’s not something he thinks about _constantly_. Maybe the plan is to not talk about this and Peter is completely on board with that plan until he’s not. He spends a lot of time pretending it doesn’t bother him. He wastes a lot of time trying not to let it bother him.

Things would be different if Deadpool had reacted like Peter had expected him to. Everything would have turned out differently, vastly so, if the circumstances had been even slightly changed.  Because if Wade hadn’t held himself back, if he had just gone through with things without thought as to how they might affect Peter, without thinking of how it might _hurt_ him, everything would be different. Everything would be different if Wade had tossed him under the proverbial bus. Everything would be different if Wade hadn’t treated him like something important, like something of worth.

Everything is already different and Peter gives up on pretending it’s anything except what it is. Tuesday night he gets an address from Natasha, who gives him a knowing look and some non-judgmental advice, and he throws himself into another set of mistakes he probably shouldn’t make. He’s getting pretty good at those lately.

“Sorry, pal, I don’t know anyone by that name,” the bartender says, voice dry and uninterested. He’s wiping off the countertop with a dishrag that has probably never been washed in its life.  “Maybe you’ve got the wrong bar. They all start to run together once you get on a good bender.”

Even if he were the type to question intelligence from Natasha (and he’s not), there’s a scoreboard scrawled above the bar that has pretty damning evidence that this is indeed the bar he’s looking for. He points to it and raises an eyebrow and the bartender shrugs at him, as though to say _well I tried_ , and picks up the phone.

It rings for just long enough that Peter thinks it’ll go to voicemail and then he hears noise through the phone that, even from across the bar, sounds a little like orchestrated chaos.

“Are you expecting anyone with a vendetta this week that you forgot to mention?” the bartender asks into the phone, dishrag still in hand, and he’s eying Peter with a level of distrust that he hasn’t even earned yet. Maybe he should have wore the Spider-man suit after all. “There’s a kid in here asking about you.”

“I’m in college,” Peter interjects, voice flat. “I’m not a kid.”

“Doogie Howser had a PhD,” the bartender reasons, and then, into the phone, “No, that was Neil Patrick Harris. He’s not - no, Neil Patrick Harris isn’t here. He’s not asking about you, it’s - what’s your name? No, I _know_ your name, asshole. Hey, kid, what’s your name?”

Peter shifts his weight to his other foot, impatient. “He doesn’t know my name.”

“That seems normal and not at all suspicious.”

The idea that something involving Deadpool might be normal is so hysterically far-fetched that Peter almost laughs in the guy’s face.

“He says you don’t know his name. Yeah, okay, whatever,” he continues, with all the enthusiasm of someone who might as well be having this conversation at gunpoint. He hangs up the phone and goes back to half heartedly wiping off the bar. “He’s on his way. I wouldn’t hold my breath or anything though.”

The least questionable seat in the house is in the back left corner, with only minor rips in the vinyl seating, and Peter thinks maybe it’s far enough out of the way that no one will notice how obvious it is he doesn’t belong. Maybe this skeezy bar full of mercenaries for hire is the kind of visual metaphor for how truly different they are and how Peter really has no business being anywhere near Wade or his typical haunts. Maybe this is the kind of sign he’s been waiting for to lay itself out in front of him and demand he takes notice.

He spends twenty minutes swiping through his phone with disinterest before two filthy katanas are dropped unceremoniously onto the table and a familiar figure slides onto the bench next to him, close enough that there’s no mistaking the smell of leather and dried blood. He had thought, maybe for a brief moment, that maybe Wade wouldn’t recognize him. It had been dark and he’s never really considered himself super memorable, but that doesn’t seem to be the case and Peter feels nervous all over again.

The one or two patrons who had been eying him with something like curiosity - or maybe even interest - seem to have suddenly forgotten his existence entirely. Normally Peter would say that Deadpool walks into a room and takes all of the space right out of it, consumes it like a black hole until you can do nothing but take notice, but there are no theatrics today. Today Wade props his masked chin up in his dirty, gloved palm and looks everything - and nothing - like the madman who constantly disrupts Spider-Man’s work.

“You remember that lamb in Jurassic Park that they set out to lure in the T-Rex?” Wade says, apropos of nothing, as per usual. “That’s what you look like. Like Lamb Chop in a dinosaur enclosure. Like fresh meat in a prison porno.”

Peter slides his phone into his pocket. “Hey, Wade.”

“I’m gonna be honest,” Wade says, instead of asking him who he is, or what he’s doing here, or why he would ever voluntarily want to see him. “I ninety nine percent thought you were gonna be Samuel L. Jackson trying to seduce me into joining his boy band. I’m a little disappointed. I even had my room in the Avengers tree house all picked out. It’s the one next to yours, obviously.”

“Well, I live in Queens, so. Probably not,” Peter shrug and continues, offers like it’s no big deal, like it doesn’t make his stomach do a flip the moment it’s in the air between them, “It’s Peter, by the way. My name, I mean.”

“Peter,” Wade repeats, obnoxiously slow, and Peter’s stomach flips again just to spite him. Despite Wade’s relaxed posture there’s a tension in the set of his shoulders that Peter probably shouldn’t know means he’s feeling defensive. There’s probably a lot about Wade that he shouldn’t know. “Well, Peter, it’s only a little creepy that you stalked me to my sleazy bar and bribed the bartender into luring me here. I’m only a little turned on by that.”

“Well I checked the only two taco trucks I know about and you weren’t at either of them. I actually only half expected you to show up.”

“Oh, baby, I’ll always come when you call,” Wade replies, easy, brow wriggling suggestively, but there’s an unfortunate truth to his words that he probably had no way of knowing would carve through Peter’s chest like a punch through his ribcage. The words lodge something in Peter’s throat, something that reminds him of crumbling foundations and the burst of fire rushing towards him and the larger body of someone curled protectively around him. This is the first time he’s ever called Deadpool, ever asked him to show up, but it’s also the first time he’s ever needed to.

“Well, at least this time there wasn’t any C4 involved.”

Maybe it’s the situation. Maybe he’s more used to the two of them being on semi-equal footing, both in disguise and in the midst of some chaos, and this isn’t familiar ground for him at all. It’s difficult to remember he doesn’t have his own mask on, doesn’t have something to hide the open expression on his face he should probably have done something to conceal.

“It’s not a party unless there are explosives involved,” Wade says, and Peter wonders what he was involved in before he dropped it all to come here at a moment’s notice. There are bloody katanas on the table, and an eight inch rip through the shoulder of his suit. It’s difficult to tell if the tapping of Wade’s gloved fingers against the back of the booth is impatience to get back to what he was in the middle of or because of something else entirely. “Ten points from Gryffindor for the faux paus of bringing up the colossal, drunk, flying elephant in the room we’re supposed to be ignoring.”

“I don’t want to ignore it,” Peter replies, and even as loud as the bar is his words are deafening to his own ears. His words sound impossibly loud now that they’re no longer rattling around, silent, in the back of his throat waiting to find a voice. “Obviously. That’s why I called you, dumbass.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely a trainwreck that we need to rehash,” He shifts, as though attempting to slide out of the booth, and Peter grabs onto his arm reflexively. Wade’s masked eyes narrow, his voice placating when he continues, “Normally I’m all about a good trainwreck, but this is an epic disaster of a trainwreck. This is a trainwreck during a category five hurricane during fucking Mardi Gras kind of disaster. No survivors! Just severed limbs and beads all over the place.”

“Is it just that you like the sound of your own voice?” Peter can’t help but ask. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re like a madlib that got filled out by a toddler.”

“News flash for you, spider monkey, but I was minding my own business for once. I had a mob boss duct taped upside down to a streetlight on 22nd who was more than occupying my time, but _noooo_. You had to trick me into coming down here to talk about how much we’ve disappointed Captain America and ruined Christmas for everyone-”

“Okay,” Peter interrupts, waving his free hand in front of them dismissively, “just making sure I’m hearing this right, but you _don’t_ want to talk about my huge, embarrassing mancrush on you? Is that where we’re at here?”

“Ha. Ha. Throwing my own words back at me. Hilarious. You can’t hear it, but I’m laughing on the inside.”

“I’m serious, asshole.”

It’s telling that there’s a momentary lapse of time in which Wade says nothing. Peter can see the muscle in his jaw tighten, can feel the tension in the arm still underneath his palm. Wade’s uncharacteristic silence is like a sudden chasm that opens up before them, that stretches out long and wide, and Peter feels the ease of the weight of his decision lifting off of his own shoulders.

There’s been weeks to work through this and Peter has stumbled along on his own, fumbling through an unforgiving onslaught of unwanted emotions and crippling doubt that he still feels lingering in the tips of his fingers. He’s spent the better part of their time apart working up the nerve to confront this, to lay it out on the table and admit it’s a thing that exists, but part of him had hoped for subtlety. He’s not sure how he thought he would possibly achieve subtlety in the same room as Deadpool.  

“And, if I remember correctly, you did promise me dinner,” he continues, because as much as he likes the speechless look on Wade it’s starting to disturb him the longer it stretches on, and maybe he rambles a little when he gets nervous. “I know we’re doing things a little out of order, but I’m sure you could find a way to make it up to me.”

The air between them feels dry and static, like an electrical storm threatening to break, and Peter wants to reach across the small space between them but doesn’t. He feels caught, like he’s waiting for the situation to unravel at the seams, like he’s waiting for the levy to break and take all of his anxiety with it. It’s been a long couple of weeks and he had thought that maybe he would start to realize the strangeness of their situation, but it turns out the strangeness doesn’t bother him like he thought it would.

Wade relaxes back into the booth and leans forward, just enough to assert himself firmly into Peter’s personal space, and says, “Well, it is Ladies Night at the _Let’s Taco ‘Bout It_ truck.”

The rush of sudden relief that swells in Peter’s chest catches him off guard. He can feel the corners of his mouth curving into a smile.

“Well,” he says, “I guess it’s a date.”

 


End file.
